


Worktime Shenanigans

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Smut, How Do I Tag, James Bond References, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Mycroft's overworking himself. Lestrade thinks he needs a break. Anthea is devious.This is my first work on here so please be kind!Not beta-read.





	Worktime Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! My friend and I did a challenge in which we had to incorporate 'the moist, demanding chasm of his mouth' from Cards Against Humanity into a smut. I have never written smut before. Enjoy!

_ Goldfish.  _ Every single one of them was a useless, plodding, predictable mass of cells all lumbering on with their drearily typical lives without the faintest idea of the massive  _ waste  _ of oxygen they were. They wouldn’t even see a bullet unless it tapped them insistently on their offensively bulbous craniums before burying itself in their sorry excuses for brains. 

 

Mycroft slid his hands over his face before blinking at the computer screen again. Despite the frost crawling up the windows, he had already removed his suit jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, which were planted firmly on his desk. Why these infuriating people who called themselves ‘Double-Oh agents’ could not grasp the frustratingly  _ simple  _ concept of not allowing themselves to become distracted by an aesthetically pleasing face when they  _ should  _ be focusing on the fact that the insert-a-variation-of-some-unnecessary-evil was successfully fleeing. If he didn’t despise legwork as much as he did he’d do it himself. Unfortunately, resorting to these types of people was unavoidable in certain scenarios, and so he tolerated them. But that didn’t mean he had to  _ like  _ them. 

 

A knock on his door jolted him out of his thoughts. He frowned. Anthea knew not to let anyone inside without informing him over the intercom first, yet as the door opened he saw her sitting primly at her desk, writing some vaguely threatening email to one of the numerous imbeciles who decided it was a good idea to try and coerce Mycroft Holmes into doing something that was decidedly not a good course of action. He opened his mouth to reprimand her - and possibly dismiss the person who’d managed to slip past her - until the door shut again and DI Gregory Lestrade had turned the lock. 

 

“I’m assuming your PA knows she should go on a coffee break for the next, oh, let’s say, half an hour or so?” Gregory pulled out the chair and sat, swinging one leg up over the other and folding his hands on top. “If she works with you I’m sure some of that Holmesian deduction has rubbed off.”

 

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked down for a moment, steeling himself before looking back up. “Inspector Lestrade, as pleasant as I find your presence - “

 

“Well, coming from you that’s high praise,” the inspector smirked, shifting his weight slightly to sink further into the chair.

 

Mycroft drew his bottom lip into his mouth in annoyance before continuing. “I’m afraid I’m in the middle of something very important that is far beyond your clearance level, therefore I must ask that you leave my office immediately.”

 

The DI raised an eyebrow before deliberately placing one foot then the other atop his desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. His message was clear: he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. 

 

“Gregory - “

 

“Oh, on a first name basis now, are we?” The man was  _ infuriating _ , and judging by his smirk he was aware of the effect he was having on Mycroft. “How flattering.”

 

This was getting ridiculous. “Gregory, what do you want?” Mycroft cringed at how much he sounded like a petulant child. “I am not interested in performing as a substitute for my brother and I doubt any of your triflingly  _ ordinary  _ cases require my attention.”

 

The man simply raised his eyebrow again.  _ Damn  _ this man. Mycroft could effortlessly shape the collective intelligence organizations of the world without so much as breaking a sweat yet this man needn’t say a word and already Mycroft was gripping the desk until his knuckles turned white. 

 

“I’m going to overlook that insult to my career because you’re very stressed and over worked,” Gregory said calmly, “and I assume you’ll be apologizing before too long.”

 

‘Will I?” Mycroft asked after a minute, even though his grip on the desk hadn’t relaxed at all. The DI’s smirk and his reflexive shudder told both of them that yes, he probably would be. 

 

“Take off your waistcoat.”

 

Mycroft’s brain stuttered to a pause. “Excuse me?”

 

“I won’t ask twice.” The DI’s voice was clipped, stern, and had dropped the two octaves from his typical cadence to a murmuring rumble. Swallowing heavily, Mycroft stood and reached down to undo the neat row of buttons on his waistcoat, letting the fabric fall open to reveal the rest of his shirt. As he grabbed the lapels and began to shrug the garment off, the seams of his shirt strained and stretched with his movement, threatening to burst as he slid the fabric over his shoulders. He draped it neatly over the back of his chair. “Good. Now put the chair under the window.”

 

Mycroft frowned, opening his mouth to protest, stopping when Gregory stared at him again. Quickly, he took the arms of the chair and set it carefully down underneath the window at the back of the room. 

 

“Good. Now stand facing it. Back against the desk, hands flat.”

 

He did as he was told, placing his hands  down against the smooth wood, the tops of his legs resting against the edge. His gaze was directed forwards, but he was listening intently as the desk creaked softly and the rustling of fabric signaled the DI getting to his feet. He expected him to walk around to stand in front but there was silence. For long seconds nothing moved. His hands began to grip the desk again, sliding along the wood until he felt breath on the back of his neck. 

 

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen,  _ Mr. Holmes, _ ” the DI purred into his ear, “you’re going to stand absolutely still and keep looking at the chair while I help you get some of that tension out of you. If you move without me telling you, or you make a single sound, I stop and walk out that door. Is that understood?”

 

Mycroft nodded furiously, fingers clutching desperately at the wood. Gregory moved closer to his ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” 

 

“Yes, sir.” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a whisper, fighting the urge to turn around and snog the man senseless. The low chuckle at his ear was a feeble reward.

 

“Good boy.” A tongue flicked out and drew itself slowly up the shell of his ear before disappearing. The desk groaned in relief as the man’s weight lifted itself off and he walked into his field of vision. “Remember, don’t move, and don’t make a sound.”

 

Mycroft swallowed as the other man leaned in and ran his mouth along the line of his jaw, lips parting ever so slightly to tease the skin with the very tip of his tongue. Slowly, that mouth made its way down the curve of his neck to the hollow of his throat, nimble fingers loosening his tie and undoing his top button. Gregory parted the fabric with his hands as he swirled his tongue around the cavity at the base of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft sucked in a breath through his teeth. This was  _ blatantly  _ unfair. He could feel the other man’s mouth curve up into a smirk as he took the tendon to the left gently between his teeth and sucked, tongue tracing slow patterns on the trapped flesh. Mycroft stifled a gasp as Gregory slid his leg in between Mycroft’s own and began to slowly rock his hips against him, sliding his mouth back up to Mycroft’s ear. 

 

“Now, I know  _ I  _ got disarmed when I walked in here to visit you, but I’m fairly certain  _ you’re  _ not allowed a gun either,” he growled, shifting torturously from side to side, rubbing his thigh across the slowly growing bulge in Mycroft’s trousers. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

 

His gaze still fixed on the chair underneath the window, Mycroft’s hands shook as the desk grew slippery under him, bracing more of his weight on his hands as his legs grew steadily weaker. The DI noticed his body shifting to maintain his balance and stopped. Mycroft barely suppressed an unhappy whine; the only outward sign of his displeasure a slight widening of his eyes. Gregory braced his hands on either side of Mycroft’s body, effectively pinning him to the desk and pulling his leg away. “You didn’t just  _ move, _ did you?” 

 

Mycroft saw the trap and refused to fall into it, freezing in place, even holding his breath in an attempt to placate the man in front of him. 

 

“Mm, must’ve just been my imagination. Because if you  _ had  _ moved, then I would’ve had to leave.” Gregory bit the shell of Mycroft’s ear, before murmuring: “And we don’t want that, now do we?”

 

He resumed rocking his leg against the tenting front of Mycroft’s trousers, his hands coming off the desk in favor of running themselves over the front of Mycroft’s shirt. Blunt nails raked over the linen, sliding the braces slowly off his shoulders and leaving them hanging down onto the desk. The soft pads of his fingers ran back up from the bottom of the shirt, pausing to rub little circles over the other man’s nipples. Gregory smiled as the muscles under the shirt clenched tight so as not to move under his hands. His hands then left in favor of undoing the buttons in a neat row down Mycroft’s sternum, inching their way down towards his belt buckle. As he peeled back the fabric, Mycroft inhaled sharply as the cool air from inside hit his chest, the desk under his hands creaking as he tightened his grip.  _ Christ,  _ at this rate he’d break through the bloody thing before he’d gotten the rest of his shirt off. But unfortunately, the curtains of his shirt stayed there, barely brushing his sides and the placket teasing his nipples. Gregory moved back into his line of sight, taking a moment to smirk at the debauched picture before him then swiping his tongue decisively over one side, then the other, hands dragging down to his pant line. His fingers dipped below the waist, tugging lightly at the belt through the fabric, forcing Mycroft to grind against his leg. 

 

The friction sent sparks flying up Mycroft’s spine to his brain, and once again he swallowed a gasp. The fingers didn’t stay put for long, diving to his belt buckle and deftly undoing it. The susurrus as the belt fell to the floor and the low slide of the zipper were the only warnings before a finger began to run itself down the outline of Mycroft’s cock through his pants. He nearly jolted at the contact before Gregory placed his palm flat against it and squeezed lightly. “Now, remember, don’t. Move.”

 

Without another word, the man dropped to the floor and the hand was replaced with the slick slide of his tongue, tracing the shape through the fabric before attaching itself to the base of his erection and sucking lightly. It trailed itself upward towards the head, just poking out above the waistband. His tongue flicked out and lapped up the precome pearling near the slit before swirling along the ridge just beneath. Mycroft’s legs trembled as he fought to remain standing. His vision grew watery as he felt the fingers tug down his pants before steadying his hips against the desk. Gregory took him down, swallowing his entire erection from root to tip, enveloping it in the moist, demanding chasm of his mouth. His tongue continued to massage the underside of Mycroft’s cock as the head hit the back of his throat. Tracing the engorged veins on the underside, he swallowed once, twice, three times. The wavelike contractions of the muscles brought Mycroft to the edge embarrassingly quickly, and only the pure, Holmesian determination kept him from crashing over. Gregory pulled off with an obscene pop before running the tip of his finger over Mycroft’s swollen balls. 

 

“Do you want to come, Mycroft?”

 

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t give the man any excuse to stop his ministrations. 

 

“You can move your head, darling. You can beg for permission.”

 

He looked down over his heaving chest at the man on his knees, tongue darting to lick kittenishly at the drops of precome at the base. Gregory glanced up at him, and without blinking, calmly ran his tongue from the base to the head, applying gentle suction to the weeping tip before pulling off, careful to provide only enough stimulation to tease and not to bring Mycroft to orgasm. 

 

“Do you want to come, Mycroft?”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft swallowed around the lump in his throat. “ _ Please. _ ”

 

“Good boy.”

 

He took Mycroft’s erection in his mouth again, twirling his tongue around the shaft before pressing the knuckle of his first finger to the spot directly behind his balls. Mycroft didn't dare move or speak for fear he would stop, but it was too late. The moan slipped out, unbidden, torn from his throat as his release spilled into Gregory’s mouth. His lover looked up at him, mouth still stretched wide around his prize, and winked. Mycroft shuddered through the aftershocks, until Gregory dropped him from his mouth, cleaning him off and tucking him back into his trousers, zipping him back up. He rose slowly, taking the time to kiss up his chest tenderly as he redid the buttons and straightened his tie. He'd been careful enough to not leave marks in any place that could be seen by the casual observer, which was greatly appreciated. 

 

He finished straightening Mycroft’s tie and leaned in for a real kiss, letting Mycroft taste himself before pulling away, frowning. He reached up and raised his thumb to run it carefully across Mycroft’s bottom lip.

 

“Oh, darling, don’t do this to yourself.”

 

Mycroft frowned. “What…” He trailed off when Gregory raised his hand, blood shining on his thumb. “...you said not to make a sound?” He apologized meekly. 

 

“You don’t have to hurt yourself to listen to me,” Gregory stated firmly before catching the torn lip between his teeth, tongue soothing the angry red mark and cleaning away the blood. Mycroft sighed into the kiss, letting the other man take control before pulling away.

 

“Feeling better, darling?”

 

“Immensely,” Mycroft sighed, retrieving his chair and shrugging his waistcoat back on. “Thank you, Gregory.”

 

“My pleasure.”

 

“What about you?” It was simply bad manners to leave his lover painfully aroused, a state he could clearly see via the front of his trousers. 

 

“Don't worry about it. I'll have a quick wank in the bathroom and head back to the station. We're still on for dinner tonight, right?” 

 

“Of course. 6:30, on the dot,” Mycroft recited dutifully, sitting back down. 

 

Gregory smirked and leaned across the desk again, perching his weight on one hand. “If you're good, maybe you can repay the favor in a...covert manner. Very under-the-table, if you catch my drift.”

 

“That was absolutely atrocious,” Mycroft scoffed in a failed attempt to disguise the sudden breathiness of his voice. His lover tipped him an exaggerated wink before walking out the door, strategically fastening his coat so as to mask his arousal. Mycroft a glimpse of Anthea’s smug face before the door swung closed again. He shook his head. Conspiring PA and a shameless lover. They'd be the death of him. 

 

He cleared his head of thoughts of blatant public embarrassment as he turned back to the sternly worded email he was reviewing before this whole escapade began. Cocking his head to the side, he allowed a small smile to crawl its way across his face before deleting it. 

 

After all, it was not in anyone’s best interest if Mycroft Holmes was discovered to be a hypocrite. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I don't own Sherlock. These characters are not mine, I'm just borrowing them for now. The OGs are a product of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the show is the brainchild of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.


End file.
